This is, unfortunately, the absoltue end. Thank you, readers, one and all. Like Don, I take my last bow. Hope to have you guys with me on future stories.

Read, smile, and review!

10. Epilogue – Connect the Dots

Sunday, November 16, 2008

9:03 PM Pacific Standard Time

Eppes Residence, Pasadena

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

FD-204 Official Investigative Report

Investigator: Special Agent Don Eppes

Call #: 3695

Statement:

In early May, the L.A. Field Office was informed as to a potential opportunity for undercover work within the Russian mob operating in the city. Contacts on the street confirmed the Russians' sudden interest in a relatively small and little-known skinhead gang in South Central L.A., La Mirada Punks. The gang's second-in-command was killed in a drug bust shootout on Friday, May 16, 2008. The Bureau, initiating an undercover operation, installed Special Agent Thomas Lord, using the alias Moe Ryder; Agent Lord spent six months in the role with little contact with the outside.

On Monday, October 27, the Bureau received intelligence that Agent Lord's identity might be compromised. Considering the especially sensitive nature of Agent Lord's position, the Bureau made arrangements for his extraction on Sunday, November 2. However, following several failed attempts at extraction, the Bureau elected to adopt another plan.

I was contacted on Monday, November 3, and briefed on Agent Lord's situation. Following review of the extraction plans, I decided to myself go undercover as a contract killer who our street contracts would in turn recommend to whoever had put out the hit on Agent Lord. This was successful; on Wednesday, November 5, at approximately 1:15 AM, I met with a man named Joseph Ricci, a former cop who had recently begun representing the Russian mob in business transactions. Ricci did not hire me to kill Agent Lord; instead, he offered me seventy-five thousand dollars to kill Leon Skelly, a close 'friend' of Agent Lord's while undercover, who the Russians suspected as being an agent.

Since Skelly had an SUS order on him, plan was developed to this end; I would be very clearly observed planting an explosive device on Skelly's car, which, once Skelly returned to his car, would trigger and kill him. Agent Lord, however, accompanied Skelly to the car, and, on Friday, November 7, at approximately 7:15 PM, was subsequently killed in the ensuing blast. Following the killings, I was contacted once more by Ricci, who informed me he was "impressed with my work" and wished to meet with me further. Early Saturday morning, at approximately 1:00 AM, I once more met with Ricci, who, unaware of my identity, offered me a further seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to kill myself.

Wishing to remain undercover as long as possible, I agreed. Immediately after the meeting, I met with Agent Ian Edgerton, a professional sniper for the Bureau, and asked him for assistance in creating my death. Later that morning, at approximately 10:00 AM, I programmed an automatic system to call the FBI Offices and make a threat on my life in the name of my assumed persona. Once the threat was received and processed, I was immediately removed from the premises and escorted to a predetermined safehouse at an undisclosed location. Dismissing my assigned guard, I returned to the residence of my brother, Charles Eppes, and retrieved from a concealed location an unregistered AMT Hardballer for use while undercover.

Returning to the safehouse at approximately 3:00 AM Sunday morning, I spent several hours arranging the apartment; using both the Hardballer and my standard issue Glock, I made it appear as if my assailant had discovered my position and there had been an altercation. I left an easily interpretable clue as to where I would go. After a day on the run, I made my way to the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central L.A., where I had informed Agent Edgerton I would be. At approximately 7:15 PM, I administered myself an intentional overdose of the drug pentobarbital, which would conceal my vital signs to simulate death.

One hour later, I was discovered by Agent Megan Reeves, second-in-command of my team, who offered me assistance in 'escaping.' Concealed on an adjoining rooftop, Agent Edgerton shot me while I was exposed; however, I was wearing a flak jacket, and the only injuries I received were some broken ribs as a consequence of the relatively close shot. I was declared officially dead at 10:42 PM, and my body was officially identified at approximately 2:45 AM on Tuesday, November 11. Three hours after this, I awoke and was escorted to a remote location by Agent Edgerton.

On Friday, November 14, 2008, following my attendance of my own funeral, I was contacted once more by Joseph Ricci, who agreed to a face-to-face meeting on Saturday, November 15, at 5:30 at Il Moro Restaurant in West L.A. He was to bring my payment, as well a few of his superiors, to whom I had expressed interest in a 'permanent contract'. Approximately 30 minutes before the dinner meet, I contacted Special Agent Reeves and informed her of my situation under the guise of the contract killer to guarantee the Bureau's presence.

The meet occurred at the scheduled time. Once I had revealed my identity, Ricci, Pokrovsky, and Semynov all attempted to flee the premises. After a brief altercation with several accomplices of Pokrovsky and Semynov, agents on the scene were able to subdue Semynov. Pokrovsky was killed by Agent Edgerton, stationed in a covert position, as he attempted to flee; I myself apprehended Joseph Ricci. Following the incident, I was taken to L.A. County Hospital for examination by a doctor. For further details on my current medical status, see forms FD-897 and FD-898.

The operation was officially terminated at 10:04 Pm on Saturday, November 15, 2008.

Letting out a subdued sigh, Charlie set the paper beside him on the end table, trading it for a beer which he swigged reflectively. Slumped on the couch in his own living room, he at present had just about as much energy to move as a beached whale. Upstairs, he could hear the restful snores of his father, which comforted him more than anything so far. When they had believed Don to be dead, it was as if Alan had gone into hyper drive. Suddenly, there was everything in the world to do; dishes needed washing, the house needed painting, and the laundry desperately needed folding… at three o'clock in the morning. When Don had finally shown up, it was as if all the energy had gone out of him, and he once more became their humorous and witty – if completely exhausted – father. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one left wiped from the week's activities

Heaving himself off the couch, Charlie tiptoed cautiously into the dining room. There lay Don, sound asleep with a comfy pillow of FD-277s, FD-320s, and SF-95s – all in all, a sizable mass of bureaucratic forms -- four beers and two spent pens scattered throughout. His hair was mussed and unkempt – he'd not yet had time to take a shower – and he was in a pair of ripped jeans and a sweatshirt that read FBI. Sneaking over, Charlie carefully reached out, picked up a pen, arranged the FD-204 as it had been when he'd stolen it, adding the pen on top for good measure. For a second, he merely watched his brother, noting the stress in his expression that hadn't even left him in sleep. Then he turned and started to quietly make his escape, when he suddenly heard a deep intake of breath. Turning, he winced in disappointment as he watched Don stir, eyes fluttering open hesitantly; raising his head slowly, he squinted in the glare of the dining room light.

"Charlie?" he mumbled quietly. "That you?"

"Hey, Don," he said, turning to address his brother. "How do you feel?"

Sitting up, Don flexed his bandaged bicep cautiously. "Arm's sore," he said, adopting gruntish. "Got a headache, too."

"The doctor said you could take aspirin," Charlie suggested.

"Yeah," slurred Don with a cheerful grin. "Thanks, Chuck."

"Not a problem," Charlie assured him, purposely ignoring the nickname and instead moving off to get some. When he returned a minute later, Don had resumed his laborious form writing. He handed Don the pills and the glass of water one by one as he downed each. When he made as if to continue writing, Charlie stopped him.

"Do them tomorrow," insisted Charlie. "Or Tuesday. You have until Wednesday for medical leave. You might actually want to try getting some rest." He paused, then added quietly, "your life doesn't always have to be about your job, you know."

Don looked up sharply at his tone. After a moment of silence spent studying Charlie's expression, he sighed.

"Look, Charlie, I'm sorry about all this. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but—"

"I know," interrupted Charlie.

"I know it was hard on you and Dad, but I'm here now, and we're all a lot safer than we would have been if I hadn't done this. The Russians would still have out a hit on me, and it wouldn't be Ian firing at me while I had a flak jacket on."

For a minute, Charlie considered him. Then a grin crept across his face, and he quickly reached out and poked Don in the ribs, earning a brief gasp of pain from his brother.

"That was for being an ass," he said, then added, "now I forgive you."

"Damn," exclaimed Don, still reeling. "Don't mess with Chuck when he's angry." He set down his pen and put his hands up in mock defeat. "I surrender. Take me away."

With a smile, Charlie pulled Don's good arm over his shoulder and supported him up the stairs to bed.

FINIS